Random thoughts of a random fellow

Had an interesting experience with interrogation

I had a revelation about why people admit things they did not do under pressure.

The following happened to me: I left my little farm to go to London, as the first leg of my trip home (Christmas was coming, baby!). I was planning to leave the car there, and figure out what was wrong with it when I came back in January. On the day of departure I realized I have no idea where my walled was. I still don’t by the way.

Anyhow, I was hoping I left it in London (I already took my luggage there the week prior), and left. In London I promptly realized I did most definitely not leave my walled there; it still must be in Compton. Nevertheless, I went to my bank, asked for a new card (which was promptly sent to my home address to the farm), and some money.

Fast forward two weeks, I’m back in the UK. I need to take the car to a garage, and I need to get some money before for the service. (Something kept draining the battery, and previous attempts to find the problem by mechanics ended in failure.) Anyhow, I went to my bank again, passport in hand.

Little did I know what I was going to face. It started peacefully enough; the clerk took my passport, my account details, and then started to ask details about the account. She did not like the fact I did not have my card with me; her suspicions started to rise. Plus the whole situation looked bad: I’ve asked for a new car three weeks before, yet still don’t have it; I keep accessing large amounts (I took home a lot for my uncle who wanted to get rid of some old bank notes, and asked me before to take them to my bank to exchange them into new ones). Home address- well, that’s fine. Amount of overdraft – say what? I have no idea what I set when I opened the account 6 years ago. Guessed zero, I was right. Previous home address in November, 2013… Oh boy. I had five different addresses in less than 6 months during that time, because I was writing up my dissertation and had no income. Guess one -no luck. Guess two- the clerk got visibly agitated. She started pressing. How is it I don’t remember where I lived two years ago?? (Do YOU remember what you had for dinner two weeks ago?) And she started telling me off. I felt like I was sweated by a one-man (well, woman) game of bad cop-bad cop. My brain shut down. Everything I said seemed like I was further digging myself into a hole; every explanation looked suspicious even to me now. I felt like I was a crook trying to rob my own bank account. By sheer luck suddenly I remembered I did not register every new address, and kept the one I lived for a year at… it took me about 3 minutes to remember that particular address. At the end I did not even want to take the money, just run away in shame. In retrospect it was a useful experience. Never, ever talk to cops without legal help; you will implicate yourself without even knowing.

As a side-note, the CIA should employ that lady. You don’t need to torture; people will crack under her stare.